Spies and Hunters
by Vreid
Summary: The hunt for the Ring, from the perspective of one of Saruman's spies. A brief look into the life of the squint-eyed southerner from the Prancing Pony. Strictly bookverse.
1. Return to Isengard

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Lord of the Rings franchise, nor do I intend to make any money from this venture.**

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9th Yavannië, III 3018

It was raining as Wulfila, late of Dunland, rode towards Isengard. The rain only contributed to Wulfila's vague sense of bitterness towards life, which had been steadily increasing ever since he had first been dispatched to negotiate the purchase of pipeweed from the Shire. The journey to and from the wretched place was trying, thanks to the state of disrepair the Great Road had fallen into after the fall of the North Kingdom. Nor was he over-fond of the Rangers who seemed to be forever lurking about the Shire's borders. However he knew that it would be foolish to incur Saruman's wrath when the wizard was one of the few people willing to employ him, so he did as he was bidden, and kept his annoyance to himself.

The worst part was having to pass by Dunland, he reflected. Had it not been for Saruman's protection, Wulfila would not have dared to ride so close to his native land, for he had been banished almost twenty years ago, when it had been discovered that he had committed murder, and then borne false witness against another man to avoid imprisonment. But while the Men of Dunland had made alliance with the wizard, and so were unlikely to slay one of his trusted retainers, Wulfila was glad to have put his former homeland behind him.

Wulfila had turned off the Great Road last evening, and was now heading south towards the gates of Isengard. He had been riding swiftly all day, hoping to reach Orthanc before sunset. He was eager for his journey to be over; he had been forced to ford the Greyflood at Tharbad, and he found himself thinking sourly that he might as well have cut through the wilderness, given the condition of the Road. _It almost would be worth having a king again, if it meant that cursed bridge was repaired_, he mused as his horse trotted placidly along the road to the fortress.

The Dunlending had been sent to the Shire to arrange the purchase of various goods, including pipeweed and grain. Saruman had become fond of the hobbits' pipeweed, though he was careful to hide that fact: he had already mocked Gandalf's proclivity for the stuff after the meeting of the White Council in 2851 and felt that admitting to liking it now would be tantamount to admitting that Gandalf had been right, and he himself wrong. Moreover, Saruman suspected that Gandalf believed the Shire was in some important, and the money he spent bought him spies as well as leaf.

His horse, a stocky chestnut gelding rather unimaginatively named Ráuths, or Red in Westron, was tough and fit, though admittedly ugly. Thus he was able to make good time, and the clouds were still stained scarlet and gold as he halted before the gates. The rain had stopped an hour ago, and a biting wind had begun. Eager to get to shelter, he gave his name to the pair of orc-men came out to challenge him, and soon found himself being ushered in past the guards.

One of the orc-men addressed him as he dismounted. "Sharkey wants to see you."

Wulfila had been hoping to find some ale before he made his report, but he was not fool enough to keep Saruman waiting.

He turned the horse over to one of the half orcs, threatening to inflict grievous bodily harm upon him if the animal found its way into the orcs' pots. Only after they seemed sufficiently cowed did he proceed towards the stairs leading up to the doors of Orthanc. Once inside, he began the long climb to the wizard's workroom, located near the top of the tower.

He was pleased to note that there was no trace of the Worm, for he had loathed Gríma son of Galmod since the day they first met. Wormtongue, he knew, returned the sentiment. There was, of course, the fact that they were rivals for Saruman's favor, but the root of the problem was quite simply their mutual contempt for each other. In Gríma's opinion Wulfila was brutal, untrustworthy and coarse-mannered. Wulfila for his part thought that Wormtongue was a cowardly, treacherous liar. They were both correct, as it happened, and had enough in common that their dislike for one another had a certain element of hypocrisy.

He found the White Wizard waiting for him in a richly-appointed chamber near the top of the tower. Saruman didn't look up from his writing as the Dunlending entered, though he could scarcely have failed to notice the other's presence.

Eventually Saruman finished the missive he had been writing and turned to Wulfila, who had been waiting patiently for the past fifteen minutes.

"Have you concluded negotiations?"

Wulfila nodded. "Yes, Lord. There is only the matter of arranging shipment." He was careful to keep his speech formal in the wizard's presence. Saruman had made it clear that he shared Wormtongue's view of Wulfila's manners, and Wulfila knew better than to displease his master.

Saruman smiled slightly in approval. "Did Master Sackville-Baggins say anything of interest?"

"No, Lord," Wulfila answered, "nor did the Bracegirdles."

It was the Bracegirdles and the Sackville-Bagginses who profited most from Saruman's patronage, and they expressed their gratitude by sending him news of the Shire, as maps and information about its most important persons and families.

Saruman frowned. For a moment it seemed as though he wished to question Wulfila further, but he said merely: "go now and rest. When you have recovered from your journey, return to the Shire to arrange for the shipment of the wares."

Wulfila bowed and left.

* * *

As the door shut behind the Dunlending, Saruman sighed in annoyance. He had captured Gandalf the Gray on the eighteenth of Cermië, more than a month previously, but the old meddler was still refusing to reveal where the Ring might be found. Saruman was not yet desperate enough to torture the other Istar for information, but time was running short. Sauron was seeking the Ring, and while Saruman's agents hindered Sauron's whenever possible, sooner or later word of the Shire would reach Mordor.

He rose and began to pace. If Sauron discovered that Saruman was playing him false, his vengeance would doubtless be both swift and terrible, but Saruman had come too far to give up. Why should he not be the Lord of the Rings? Sauron might have more raw power than him, but Saruman was convinced that he was the more intelligent of the two of them. In any case, the White Wizard was tired of being a counselor and servant; it was time for him to rule in his own right, and to do that, he needed the Ring.

Unfortunately, the Ring was proving even more elusive than he had originally expected. At first, he had concentrated his search on the area around the Gladden, where it had been lost, but that had proved futile. He had come to believe that Gandalf knew more of its fate than he would admit, and it was in part because of that belief that he had begun to spy upon Gandalf's favorite haunts. The fact that the Shire was so zealously guarded by Rangers only increased his suspicions. However he had not the strength yet to move openly, so he sent his Dunlendish spies to watch, and report back to him.

While they worked, he concentrated on building his armies, and provisioning Isengard for the coming war. Rohan was weakened, true, but it would not fall without a fight. And Sauron would have to be dealt with in the end. Saruman returned to his desk and began to write again; there was still much to be done, and little time to do it in.

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**Author's notes: I chose to use Gothic to represent Dunlendish. The relationship between Gothic and the Old English used for Rohirric in LotR is probably closer than the relationship between 'real' Dunlendish and Rohirric would be, but I decided to use Gothic anyway, since the two languages aren't really mutually intelligible.  
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**Most of the information in this chapter is taken from _The_ _Unfinished Tales_. The dates of the canon events are from the Appendixes of _The Return of the King_. I am using the Stewards' Reckoning. If you want to convert the dates to the Gregorian calender, or just want more information on the various calenders used in Middle-earth, here is a link to the Encyclopedia of Arda's interactive calender: www . /arda/dates . html (just remove the spaces).  
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**It's worth noting that Tolkien created four different versions of this particular story. I have opted to use the one Christopher Tolkien designates version A, simply because it is the most complete. However details from the other versions may creep in if they don't directly contradict A.  
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**Feedback is welcome, especially regarding pacing and plot.**


	2. Homecoming

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Lord of the Rings franchise, nor do I intend to make any money from this venture.**

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17th Yavannië, III 3018

For the second time in as many months, Wulfila found himself riding past Dol Baran. His horse, Ráuths, had survived his sojourn in Isengard, sparing him the trouble of procuring a replacement, though all his time in the company of Saruman's orc-men had left him nervous and ill-tempered. Wulfila made him trot a while, in order to work the stiffness out of his back and burn off his excess energy. By the time the Sun had reached her zenith, Ráuths was relaxed and moving freely. Wulfila was glad that the gelding had quietened, for he had never grown entirely comfortable on a horse's back.

The sun shone warmly, but there was the first hint of a chill in the breeze, reminding Wulfila that the leaves would soon be falling. He had been ordered to see to it that the wares were sent out before winter began if possible, but the fall was proving mild, and he was confident that the shipment would reach Isengard before the roads became too bad.

Shortly after noon, he heard riders coming along the road from the the north. He paid little heed to them at first; it was only when one of them called out to him that he realized that they were men he had known of old, before his banishment.

"What brings you here?" the leader demanded, "murder again, I suppose." As he spoke, his men advanced, blocking Wulfila's path.

Several snide responses darted through Wulfila's mind, but fear prevented any of them from reaching his lips. Instead, he answered: "I've come on business from the White Wizard. Trouble me and you'll have to deal with him!"

"You've become bold," the leader sneered. "Have you forgotten what Athanaric's father swore he'd do to you if he caught you?"

Wulfila had not forgotten, though in truth he wished he could: Old Athaulf had been most imaginative in his threats when he had discovered who had killed his son and his memory was long. Worse yet, he was the uncle of the current king, and possessed considerable influence in Dunland.

The leader looked at him scornfully. "What possessed you to slay a nobleman?" he asked, tilting his head to the side as he gazed at Wulfila.

Wulfila had often wondered at his folly himself, but it was not altogether surprising that events had taken the course they had. Athanaric had come upon him while he was drinking in at an inn in eastern Dunland not far from their hometown and demanded payment of a longstanding gambling debt. Wulfila had been drunk at the time, and had taken exception to what he considered Athanaric's haughty manner. The two men had quarreled, and in the end Athanaric had stormed out of the inn swearing that he would have satisfaction from Wulfila, be it in the form of money or blood. Wulfila had not the funds to repay his debt, so he had followed Athanaric and, in his fear and anger, stabbed him when he turned down a dark side-path.

After he had sobered up, he had grasped the seriousness of his situation. He had seen that one of Athanaric's comrades, Fritigern, was in town, so he seized upon the idea of saying that he had seen Fritigern following Athanaric down the road. Unfortunately for Wulfila, it was only after he had sworn to the events of that night before the lord that it had come out that Fritigern had in fact been dining with his sister and her husband when the murder was committed, and so could not possibly have been that culprit.

Fritigern had told of Wulfila's debt, and the innkeeper had spoken of his fight with Athanaric. Thus did Lord Geberic discover that Wulfila was guilty of murder, and had lied under oath and sought to bring another man to ruin to hide his crime.

Ordinarily, the penalty for such crimes would have been death, but Wulfila earned his living as a smuggler, and had been celebrating the completion of an errand for the lord's own son when Athanaric had caught him. Geberic had been loath to risk his son's reputation, since it would inevitably come out that the boy had refused to pay Wulfila, but he could not let Athanaric's killer walk free. Therefore, he had appealed to the king to banish Wulfila from Dunland on pain of death.

But Athanaric's kith and kin had not forgiven or forgotten, and the men who stood before Wulfila now he knew to be friends of Fritigern. He did not think they would attack him, not while he was on one of Saruman's errands, but he felt fear, nonetheless.

He kept it from his voice, though. "Aye, I remember his threats. And I remember too that he could scarcely lift a sword, never mind swing it."

The other man, whose name he recalled now was Alaric, smiled. "Perhaps he'll have help."

Wulfila scowled. "From you? What will Sharkey say when he finds you've killed one of his men? Anyway, we aren't in Dunland, so I've committed no crime as yet."

It was Alaric's turn to glare, but Wulfila spoke the truth, and he knew it. "Be about your business then, but have a care lest we catch you again!"

The riders moved aside as he passed, but did not continue on their way immediately. He could feel their eyes on his back until he rounded a small hill and they were lost to sight.

* * *

18th Yavannië, III 3018

Saruman stared in disbelief. Gandalf the Gray, it seemed, had escaped in the night with help from the strangest quarter.

"An eagle?" he demanded of the scrawny Dunlending who had brought him the news.

"Aye, Lord," the youth answered. His face was white with fear as he spoke, for Saruman was not kind to bearers of bad news.

Saruman snarled, fury and fear threatening to overwhelm him. He wished now that he had had the stomach to force Gandalf to reveal whatever secrets he was keeping, but regrets would change nothing; Gandalf was gone, and Saruman was backed into a corner now. Had he been less proud, he might have cursed himself for a fool.

The messenger was still watching him nervously, hoping against hope that he might escape unscathed. He was newly arrived in Orthanc, and had a family to support in Dunland, else he would not have taken service with the wizard.

Luck was with him: Saruman was troubled by the thought that soon his schemes would be laid bare to the Wise. So distracted was he that he commanded the messenger to leave without so much as an acerbic remark.

Once the door had shut, Saruman sagged in his chair for a moment. Long had he sought the One Ring, but until now he had not fully appreciated what his betrayal meant. He could not expect help from his old allies, and he doubted he could conceal his intentions from Sauron for much longer.

He drew himself up. He was Saruman the White, Saruman of Many Colors, and he would prevail. Was he not the greatest of the Istari, the wisest of the Wise and the leader of their councils?

But as day drew on, and the shadows of the mountains slowly crept over Isengard, he feared.

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**Tolkien said next to nothing about Dunland, so I have taken some creative liberty in assuming that there was a king at all.**


	3. The Turning Point

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Lord of the Rings franchise, nor do I intend to make any money from this venture.**

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19th Yavannië, III 3018

The leader of the riders approaching Isengard reined his horse in and glared at the fortress looming before him. The Lord of the Nazgûl was in an even fouler temper than was his wont. His master had commanded him to question Saruman and learn what the wizard knew of the Ring, but that was easier said than done. Isengard was prepared for war, and he could not hope to take the fortress by force of arms. However neither could he disobey his lord's will, so he shouted to the guards at the gate. "Send out the White Wizard, for I have questions to put to him."

The guards would not ordinarily have troubled Saruman over such a matter. It was not unheard of for strangers to come to Isengard seeking an audience with the White Wizard, after all, though this rider scarcely seemed the usual sort of petitioner.

In truth, the captain of the guard wished that he could do as the Black Rider bade him. Fear such as he had never known came over him, and he found himself thinking for a moment that it would be better to face Saruman's wrath than to defy the Rider. But he knew that it would be more than his life was worth to disturb Saruman over some stranger at the gate, so he set his jaw, and tried to keep his voice from shaking as he answered. "The White Wizard has affairs of his own to attend to. He'll answer your questions if he sees fit, and he'll do it in his own good time."

The Lord of Morgul gave no answer to that. Instead, a piercing shriek rent the air, causing the guards to quail. Eventually it trailed off, leaving the guards trembling and covering their ears. Satisfied that Saruman knew now who, or rather what, he was dealing with, the Witch-king waited.

He did not have to wait long. Soon, an unctuous voice came that seemed to issue from the gate itself. "What brings you here, Servant of Sauron?"

The Lord of the Nazgûl very nearly winced at that: Sauron's orders for them to ride to Isengard had been accompanied by threats so terrible that even he could not contemplate them with equanimity. The Dark Lord's wrath was terrible, and the Nazgûl would face its full brunt if they failed in their quest. However, the Lord of Morgul had no wish to show his apprehension when Saruman watched, so he held himself steady. "My Master sends me. I require whatever knowledge you possess of the land of the race known as Halflings."

For a moment, Saruman seemed to hesitate. Then his voice came again. _"It is not a land that you look for,"_ the wizard said. _"I know what you seek, though you do not name it. I have it not, as surely its servants perceive without telling; for if I had it, then you would bow before me and call me Lord. And if I knew where this thing was hid, I should not be here, but long gone before you take it. There is one only whom I guess to have this knowledge: Mithrandir, enemy of Sauron. And since it is but two days since he departed from Isengard, seek him nearby." _

It was the Ringwraith who hesitated now. The suspicions he had held mere moments before seemed suddenly unreasonable. He pondered the wizard's words for a time, then said; "Aye, I know well that you possess not that which we seek. We shall find the Gray Wanderer then. But have a care: though you speak boldly, you are but a servant of the Lord of Mordor in the end, just as we are, and it will go ill for you, should you forget that."

Saruman made no reply. The Lord of the Nine might boast and threaten, but he was still born of the race of Men, and could not resist the voice of Saruman. He would believe Saruman's words, and depart in search of Gandalf.

Sure enough, in the gathering darkness, the Nazgûl turned their horses and rode away.

* * *

20th Yavannië, III 3018

Gríma Wormtongue was galloping towards Isengard. His horse was sweating, and he suspected that he had done it permanent harm in riding it so hard, but he cared not, as long as he reached his destination swiftly, for Gandalf the Gray had arrived at Meduseld with word of Saruman's betrayal.

He winced at the recollection of that meeting. But all had not been lost, not yet, at least. Théoden was too far gone in enchantment to heed Gandalf's warnings. There was time still, Wormtongue told himself as he rode on, lost in his worries.

So distracted was he that he failed to notice the way the shadows seemed to lengthen until he heard a cold voice behind him. "Halt in the name of Mordor!"

Sudden terror assailed him and he spurred his horse on, but his efforts were in vain; the riders gained on him rapidly. The foremost of them shouted in some harsh ancient tongue, and Gríma's horse began to buck wildly, maddened by fear. Wormtongue was thrown, and the Black Riders encircled him before he could flee.

As they surrounded the fallen man, Khamûl sneered in contempt. The creature was cringing in abject terror, heedless of all dignity. A few of the Nine grinned in anticipation, hoping to see blood spilled, but their captain urged his horse forward and looked down curiously. "Why dost thou ride in such haste?" he asked. "Whom dost thou serve? Tell me, else thy death shall be slow."

His victim responded, terrified. "I serve Saruman the White. I ride to Isengard to bring word of the escape of Gandalf. Please, spare me!"

Though Wormtongue could not see it, his words brought a grim smile to the Lord of Morgul's face. The farther he rode, the more the Witch-king's doubts had returned, and he had begun to wonder whether he ought not turn back, and see if he could not force Saruman to be more forthcoming. Now, though, he saw a better way to solve his problem than risking enchantment again.

"Then perhaps thou canst tell me something of thy master's plans. What said Gandalf the Gray to thy master, and whence did he come?"

Wormtongue, thinking only to preserve his own life and caring not whether he betrayed his lord, answered immediately. "_Yea, yea verily I can tell you, Lord,_" he said, panicking. _"I have overheard their speech together in Isengard. The land of the Halflings: it was thence that Gandalf came, and desires to return. He seeks now only a horse."_

_"_Where does this land lie?" the Black Captain demanded, his voice suddenly low and threatening. "Speak swiftly lest my patience wane!" He was furious now, more so than he had been in centuries. As he had suspected, the wizard had dared to lie to him, and worse yet, to ensorcell him. Well, Saruman would pay in the end. He would see to that!

Wormtongue saw his peril. _"Spare me! I speak as swiftly as I may. West through the Gap of Rohan yonder, and then north and a little west, until the next great river bars the way; the Greyflood it is called. Thence from the crossing at Tharbad the old road will lead you to the borders. 'The Shire,' they call it."_

The Nine exchanged glances. This encounter was proving fruitful indeed. The Lord of the Nazgûl raised an unseen eyebrow in curiosity. "So Saruman knows of this 'Shire' then?" he asked.

_"Yea, verily, Saruman knows of it. Goods came to him from that land down the road. Spare me, Lord! Indeed I will say naught of our meeting to any that live."_

Gríma Wormtongue was a liar, the Lord of the Nazgûl knew, yet liar or no, he spoke the truth. He would say naught of this meeting. Nonetheless, it would be simpler, the Lord of Morgul thought, to kill him. He would certainly enjoy killing the sniveling wretch. But some instinct stayed his hand, a flash of foreknowledge that whispered to him that Wormtongue had a part to play yet. What that part might be, he could not guess, but he sensed that it would please him.

He wheeled his horse. "Leave him. He shall keep his word, and I cannot not tarry here long enough to give him the death he deserves."

Saruman would answer to their lord in due time, but they could not turn back now. They had been sent to find the Ring, not to punish renegades.

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**All italicized dialogue is taken from _The Unfinished Tales_ p. 176.**


	4. A New Task

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Lord of the Rings franchise, nor do I intend to make any money from this venture.**

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23rd Yavannië, III 3018

The two days after his meeting with his countrymen passed quietly for Wulfila. The weather remained fair, and he was rapidly approaching the Greyflood, which ran along the former southern border of Arnor.

He had not seen any other Dunlendings since Alaric and his cronies, much to his relief. He was still afraid of reprisals, and though he had boasted of being under Saruman's protection, in truth he doubted that the wizard could or would protect him in the wilderness.

As Wulfila rode farther north, the grass gave way to brush, and then the brush to trees. The sun shone down on pale stones cropping up amongst the foliage, but a wind had risen in the night, leaving him shivering in spite of his cloak.

To distract himself, he thought again of his orders. Find this Halfling, Baggins, and take him prisoner, or deliver him to other agents of Saruman who could do so.

Wulfila smiled. _Not so difficult, when all's said and done_, he thought, feeling his spirits rise at the prospect of his reward.

Towards the middle of the day, clouds began to gather, blocking the sun. The wind rose, and a fine drizzle began to fall, to Wulfila's considerable dismay. However he had no wish to stop before he had forded the Greyflood, so he bowed his head against the rain and pressed on, urging his horse to a brisk trot.

For a time, he rode on. He had not gone more than a mile when he felt an unevenness in Ráuths' stride: the gelding seemed to be limping in his right foreleg.

He reined Ráuths in, and looked around for any shelter. The ground here was relatively flat, and marshy from late-summer rain, with small pools of standing water. A few small hillocks rose on both sides of him, but he had left the trees behind some half-hour ago.

In the end, he was forced to resign himself to the fact that he would have to stop here, in the open, or risk Ráuths going lame. He dismounted, and led Ráuths off the road. There, he hunted in his saddlebags for a hoofpick, then stooped and ran his hand down the back of Ráuths' leg, squeezing gently midway along the cannon bone to encourage the gelding to pick his hoof up.

As he had expected, there was a stone caught under the shoe, which he removed. Shivering, he straightened up. Mounting, he urged Ráuths to a trot again, but found to his dismay that the gelding was limping. The rain was still coming down, but Wulfila decided to stop regardless, that he might eat while Ráuths rested.

He hobbled Ráuths, and was retrieving a loaf of bread from his saddlebags when Ráuths raised his head suddenly, his ears twitching and his nostrils flared as he shifted nervously.

Whatever Ráuths sensed seemed to terrify him, for his eyes rolled wildly, and he backed up. He was shaking, and Wulfila thought he would have bolted if he could. Wulfila looked about warily, suddenly fearful, hoping to spot whatever it was that had frightened his horse.

* * *

Three dark riders moved swiftly through the rain. After the encounter with Wormtongue, the Black Captain had decided to divide his forces, splitting them into groups of two. He himself had elected to ride ahead with the swiftest group.

It had occurred to him that he might yet profit from the White Wizard's plots; if Saruman thought he knew where the Ring was, he would surely have sent spies to seek it. These spies might have knowledge that Wormtongue lacked, knowledge that would prove useful to the Lord of the Nine.

Nor was that the end of their potential usefulness. The Ringwraiths had many powers, but, the Lord of the Nazgûl acknowledged, looking back at his companions, subtlety was not always among them. Mortal spies could walk abroad unhindered in the daylight, and move among men unnoticed in a manner his brethren could not.

As though his thoughts had conjured it, the scent of blood was carried towards him on the wind.

* * *

Three figures rode forward out of the rain. Tall they were, and cloaked in black. The leader halted, and called to Wulfila, who had been about to flee in terror.

"Stay!"

Wulfila looked upon his new tormentors with mingled dread and resentment. He hardly judged it fair that he should be overtaken and threatened by these so soon after having escaped Alaric.

He felt unseen eyes upon him, and fear overcame him. There was a cold, nauseous feeling in the bottom of his stomach, and his hands shook. He wished that he could have jumped on his horse and galloped as fast and far as he could. For a moment, he thought of flight on foot, but in this open landscape, he had no hope of escaping from horsemen.

The foremost of the Black Riders, who seemed to be the leader, looked at him for a time as though pondering something, and spoke again. "Whence dost thou come?"

Wulfila felt a brief flash of irritation at the peremptory mode of address, but it was quickly consumed by terror. He wondered whether he would put himself in greater danger by speaking the truth, or by lying.

"Dunland, as you can see," he said, attempting to win time. He wondered who they were. He was rapidly becoming convinced that they were servants of Sauron; for he knew that Saruman had pledged fealty to Mordor, and given what he knew of the wizard's character, he fully expected his master to break faith with the Dark Lord.

"That is no answer," the Black Rider said, and there was malice in his voice. "I will ask again and if I am not satisfied with thy response, thou shalt die." He sounded rather as if he hoped Wulfila's response would be unsatisfactory.

Wulfila found himself answering, half out of fear, and half out of some strange compulsion. "I come from Isengard. I'm in the employ of the White Wizard and under his protection."

"I thought as much." The black horse's saddle creaked slightly as its rider shifted, seemingly completely unfazed at the thought of incurring Saruman's wrath. A hint of smugness had entered his voice. "Now, tell me of thine errand."

Again Wulfila felt himself compelled to speak. "I was sent by Saruman to arrange the shipment of the goods he bought. I'm heading for Bree, and then the Shire." Again he wondered who these people, if such they could be called, were, and what they wanted with him.

"And is that all?"

"No, lord, I was also ordered to look for a Hobbit named Baggins."

It seemed to Wulfila that the other was pleased by his response, for his air of malice lessened somewhat. "What information has Saruman given thee regarding this Baggins, and the Shire?"

Wulfila saw a chance to escape with his hide intact. "Anything you might wish to know, lord," he said. He felt an instant's shame at how readily he was betraying his master, but Saruman was not paying him anything like the value of his own life.

"I wish to know a great deal." The Rider paused, lost in thought. "Tell me of the roads into the Shire. Are they guarded?"

"They are: the Rangers watch them." Wulfila paused, attempting to order thoughts clouded with fear. "If you follow the North-south Road, you can cross the Brandywine at the Sarn Ford. The Road will take you through the Shire from there."

"And where might I find Baggins, if I sought him?"

"He dwells in Hobbiton, lord, according to the papers I was given."

The Rider tilted his head slightly to the side. "Papers?"

As he spoke, he went over to Ráuths and took the maps and documents he had been given from the saddlebags. "My master gave me maps of the Shire, and details about the place."

"Give them to me."

Wulfila did as he was bidden, shuddering as he approached the Rider, who took the pouch containing the documents and examined its contents.

"We have here what information we need from thee. But I have a task for thee: continue on to Bree, and seek Baggins, but bring him to us if thou shouldst find him. Thou art in service to the Lord of Mordor now."

Wulfila winced: he had no desire to betray Saruman, and in doing so, earn his enmity. But the Rider was still speaking, and as he spoke, the fear that had been gnawing at Wulfila's gut rose up and seemed to choke him. "If thou seekest to betray him, thou wilt die in torment."

Betray Saruman or betray Sauron. Wulfila sighed. It was typical of his luck that he should be given such a choice.

* * *

** This is something that doesn't really come across well in modern English, but essentially, _thou, thee_ is the form of address one would use with children, very close friends, or social inferiors. So in this context, it's a way of showing contempt.  
**

**This is where I opted to go with version C instead of version A. In version A, there are two spies; however, I decided that since the squint-eyed Southerner, aka Wulfila, is the only Dunlendic spy in evidence at the Prancing Pony, it was simpler to cut out Sir Not-appearing-in-this-plot.  
**

**And last but not least, thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited or reviewed this story, I appreciate your support.**


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